Smoking Habits
by Shy Spirit Kitty
Summary: Sherlock is off to buy his own patches for once but ends up finding something much more fun to do with his time. One-Shot


I do not own Sherlock, this is the BBC version. Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and all the characters. BBC made the program and are making the money.

Sorry about Grammer.

This is not only my first Sherlock story without romance, but it's probably my first story in general without romance. Sorry if it's bad x

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_Nobody could touch him, he was invincible. Startling, like a fox that was caught briefly in a car's headlights. Nobody expected him, nobody prepared for him, and he was gone before you knew it, so brief, so quick. No relationships, no emotions, just a name, which was..._

"Sherlock Holmes." The bell rang, light fingers grazed the door handle and a quick puff of winter smoke arose and gently rested on the lean man's flushed cheeks. The shop keeper rolled his eyes as the detective shook off the snow from his long coat and released it all onto the 'Welcome' doormat, pulling a grim face as he did so.

"Come for the patches 'av you Mr Holmes?" Sherlock gazed up from his wet shoes at the shop keeper curious and somewhat surprised, and then with a thin smile he approached the till keeping direct eye connect with the man in front of him, the shop keeper put down his puzzle book and pen, his full intention on his 'customer'.

"Come now, must you address me so formally Patrick?" He spoke with a amused tone. 'Patrick' fought back the urge to groan as Sherlock snorted nosily obviously expecting some sympathy.

" Course not Mr Holmes, but why have our jobs if we do not use the techniques learned in our professions ?" He asked bringing up his badge that said 'Welcome to Marty's, I'm George , I'm happy to help you' Sherlock simply smiled then let out a dry chuckle.

"Do you really expect me to believe that you are George, I can give you numerical reasons why you are not who that badge claims you to be" Sherlock said, eyes lit with the promise of a challenge. The shop keeper smirked, he had heard a lot about the great Sherlock Holmes yet in all his months of serving the man in his early thirties, he had never once told Sherlock his name.

"I'll do you a deal, listen 'ere Sherlock-" At this point formalities were abolished "- If you can successfully give me at least three reasons why I'm not who I claim to be then I'll pay for the patches myself, outta my own wages," Sherlock never backed down from a challenge, circling around the counter he glanced around quickly.

"The pin on the badge is wedged into a larger hoop indicating that the pin is fashioned for a more slender figure. George is a tall man, is he not? Some of the items placed normally on the shelves have been constantly shuffled and rearranged I doubt any of the customers would stay hours on end doing this, as indicated by the constant press marks on several boxed food items, no these boxes have been placed so that nobody small enough, let's say you, could reach up and examine them. His writing is more curly, I've never looked at your name tag to know your writing style, but from the way you fill in your puzzles you press hard of the pen making it as bold as possible. By the way, 7 letters down: A creature with a shell that could live in the ocean? It's Turtles not 'Tortoes' which you spelt wrong anyway. The list could go on but I don't think your customers would be too pleased if I kept you any longer.' Sherlock smirked as the expression on the shopkeeper's face turned from smug to shock.

Without another word Sherlock turned swiftly and made for the door, his hand clutched hold the door handle and as he ripped it open the cold breeze wiped over him. Bouncing on the balls of his feet he began to step out of the shop but almost slipped on the ice covering the doorstep.

"It's slippery!" He exclaimed happily before striding off. The shopkeeper who really was Patrick suddenly remembered that Sherlock had left his patches behind. Racing out the door he called after Sherlock just as he was about to turn a corner.

"Sherlock, you forgot the patches mate," Sherlock simply smiled, a darkening thrill and rush sweeping through his body.

"Keep them, I've had my rush." He said, before disappearing altogether round the next street.


End file.
